


Share Thy Fate

by yet_intrepid



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Barricades, Canonical Character Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 11:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a way, Enjolras and Combeferre had always expected to die together. They were prepared to leave this world side-by-side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Share Thy Fate

In childhood, they had died side by side time after time.

Defiant captive Gauls refusing to kill one another in the arena. American spies captured and hanged by the British. Representatives-on-mission fighting for the French Republic. Slaves rising up against Greek or Roman masters.

And now, every time the enemy pressed close at the barricades, Enjolras took comfort in Combeferre’s presence. They had rehearsed these moments from the time they were nine years old. They were prepared. They were quite capable of dying together for their dreams of the future.

As the grapeshot began, Combeferre refused Enjolras a mattress for defense on grounds that the wounded were using them, and Enjolras glanced at him fondly as the old man who had come to them in uniform shot one down from a window. Whether or not they could reinforce the barricade to prolong their last moments, they were together and Combeferre was as much himself as ever.

Words from yesterday echoed in his ears. _We shall share thy fate…share thy fate._

——

“He finds a way to not fight in this barricade.”

Enjolras gave a soft smile, thinking of Combeferre on their first barricade, a very small one in 1826. “Which does not prevent him from defending it,” he answered.

Combeferre caught on to the memory—his young days, his unswervingly pacifist days, when he could not bring himself to directly harm another but kept himself to helping the wounded and preparing ammunition. Now he had inclined a little to Enjolras’ position, just as Enjolras’ thoughts had been tempered by Combeferre’s.

“Heroism has its originals,” he replied.

And as Courfeyrac put in a comment, Combeferre stepped a little closer to Enjolras. They had come so far together. Surely they would end as they had begun.

——

Noon struck. Enjolras had the windows fortified as the cannon fired, fired, fired away at the center of the barricade. The army would soon be through. They would soon be fighting in earnest. The insurgents would soon need the café as a place of retreat.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre threw out to him in passing as he carried paving stones, “the hospital. We can’t let the fighting in there.”

“I’ll have it looked to,” Enjolras responded, searching about for nails, which he handed to three men who came down the stairs. “No spattering on the wounded,” he said.

The kitchen had become hospital and as such it was sacred. Combeferre had assured it so. The men inside would—did they have a door? He could not remember if there was a door in the kitchen of the Corinthe. But in any case, they would not die in the fighting.

And then Feuilly looking after the axes and reserve muskets—and the old volunteer taking charge of the informer—and then Marius’ shout.

Enjolras grabbed Combeferre by the hand. “Outside, everyone!” he called.

They had run hand-in-hand so many times that it did not hamper them as they sped to their positions on the barricade.

——

It would have been selfish for Combeferre to take up a position by Enjolras’ side, on the end of the barricade. He was the nearest of the lieutenants, but there were men between them. Feuilly, on his other side, was closer, and they fought in tandem, lending steadying hands and defensive blows.

And Feuilly, his stomach spurting blood, was bitter at those who had abandoned them, bitter at those who had promised and not fulfilled. Combeferre, in a moment’s lull, ripped off the tricolor sash that miraculously remained around his waist and knotted it around Feuilly’s wound. It would not be long for Feuilly now, he thought, as he heard the rough breathing and, on instinct, felt his friend’s pulse.

He smiled gravely. “There are those who observe the rules of honor as we observe the stars,” he said, “from far off.”

Feuilly would not be far from the stars for long, even if the barricade held.

It did not hold. Combeferre lost sight of him as the assault surged and they were pushed back, back, using guns as clubs, striking with feet and fists. But he caught a glimpse of Enjolras, hair flying wildly, shooting his last ball at Combeferre’s assailant before cracking his carbine over the nearest soldier’s head.

Combeferre nodded to him and spun around and tripped, almost falling over a uniformed body. No, not a body. It was moving. Crying weakly. A man, then.

He scrambled up, his heart surging, and he thought, he’d have just enough time to drag this man to the sidelines so he’d not be trodden upon, because no one deserved to die that way, and then rejoin his brothers.

So he bent down again and turned the man over, and he saw hope in those eyes—

——

Enjolras had no ammunition.

He was swinging a saber that he had wrenched from some officer, and pushing as many of his men as he could backwards towards the café. Faces flashed through his mind at the speed of bullets, and he did his best to remember which were dead, which were safe, which still needed to be helped to retreat—

As he finished off the man before him, Combeferre’s face appeared. He scanned, faster than he had ever scanned before. Combeferre was still alive. He knew it. As long as he was here, Combeferre was, and they would retreat together; they would make it to the café and—

Then he saw it. Three bayonets. Dark hair. A face in profile, lifted upwards. A soldier in his arms.

“Combeferre!” he shouted, but it was too late and the body was crumpling and he could not weep now, he could not be sick now, he could not think now or feel now lest the emptiness swallow him whole.

When he had driven the last of the men into the café, he slammed the door on a soldier’s hand.

Alone. He was dying alone.

Combeferre had died alone.

But the end came and Grantaire crossed the room.

Combeferre had died with a wounded man in his arms, Enjolras realized. And he himself was dying with his fingers wrapped around the hand of a wavering soul.

He had seen hope in those eyes.

Guns or bayonets, it was a shared fate.


End file.
